A Wreath of Songbirds
by Aoi Shoudou
Summary: Count D sells an uprising star of the opera three birds to help her voice, but the powers they grant quickly rip her away from the world around her. PG-13 for language and such.
1. Crescendo

A Wreath of Songbirds

-

This woman had not particularly intrigued the Count at all. In fact, her presence in his shop was something he'd seen all too often; some classless, disgruntled, filthy-rich client using one of his beloved pets to cope with some imperfection crossing their otherwise flawless lifestyle. As she yanked anxiously at her tawny, straight hair and squawked her sorrows at him, he merely poured a glass of tea for himself and his decidedly generic customer. This, he decided, would be a quick and simple transaction for a patron of a very similar nature.

"...and so that's how I ended up landing my gig at the Les Prieres Opera Hall. The problem is, Mr. D – "

"Excuse me, but I would much prefer being referred to as Count D."

"Right. Well, Mr. Count D, things there went very smoothly for a few weeks, but _wow_!" She drawled out her final word in a tone so aggravatingly urban that the Count's ears, seasoned by the piercing cries of many creatures, ached. "As far as the stress levels go, it's _off the chart_! And so yesterday, I was on stage, delivering my grand-finale rendition of 'Parle-moi de mere' and it happened! My voice just completely gave out! So there I am, at a literal loss for words smack-dab in front of the biggest big-wigs in Los Angeles, and what do I do? I burst into tears!" Count D delivered a practiced noise of sympathy. "I just ran off stage, too embarrassed to do anything else. After the performance, I tried to sing back at my apartment, and not a sound! Needless to say, Mr. Count D, my career's in soooome trouble!"

"Have you consulted a doctor, Miss Mariano?"

"Oh no, cut the formalities! Just Michelle will do!" With this rather canned line, she assaulted D's ears yet again with a laugh that no operatic octave could touch. D could hear his pets growing more restless with each foul sound that this woman made.

"Well, yeah, of course I've seen a doctor. He just says it's over-exertion of the vocal cords."

"No pet, Michelle, will cause your voice to recover faster. The most you need is some rest." D expected some other excuse as to his client's flakiness, and without fail she managed to deliver.

"Well, the problem is that I've got a huuuuge performance coming up in a week! The doctor says it'll take at least a month and a half for my voice to un-strain itself, and that's time that I don't have! So come on, Mr. Count D, I've heard some _real_ good stuff about what you have to offer. If it's money you want, then I won't fail you!" Count D prayed that he would not have to deal with this idiot for much longer. He knew exactly which pet to pick out for her, and it would be wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

"If you insist, then come back here. I know what you'll need..."

-

"I'm home, lovely!" she called out, formidable voice echoing through the near-cavernous interior of her mansion. Its décor effortlessly reflected the lucrative existence of the talented opera singer, punctuated by a dizzying array of glass and crystal and marble and far too many exotic houseplants. No expense was spared with Michelle Mariano at the helm, and the man she chose to join her in the opulent venture of life stood there in the hall.

"Hey there, sweetheart." He took his young and vibrant fiancée into his arms and gave her a gentle peck upon the lips. "What's that you're holding?"

She grinned. In her right hand was a dome-shaped object, obscured by a crimson-velvet curtain, and with her husband's inquisition she rested it on a nearby table and whipped the veneer off. "Aren't they just the most beautiful things you've seen, Rick?"

They were indeed very beautiful; a trio of birds, all perched upon the same branch, plumed with wildly iridescent azure feathers. Their beaks were spotless arcs of orange, the ends sharpened to a pinpoint, and their tails were regal towers of violent green plumage. All three of the birds stood deathly still, wide brown eyes fixed intently on the man peering into their cage.

Rick whistled. "And _how_ much did these cost?"

"You say it as if you CARE, love!" Michelle latched her lascivious lips onto his once again and ran her fingers through his violently cropped brown hair. Rick silently realized that she never actually provided an answer. "Now, there are three conditions that we have to keep 'em under at all times. First off, we've gotta give them one of these pellets every day after noon. " With this she took a small pouch of blue globes out of her purse. "We've gotta to keep them constantly exposed to some source of light, and finally – and this is the weird part – we have to make sure that no silverware is ever crossed within this household."

Her fiancé looked at her as if she was insane and released his arms from around her. "What the hell does that have to do with keeping birds?"

"I asked the _same_ question! All the shop owner – hell of a guy, by the way – told me was that these birds came from Romania, which has to do with some sort of superstition and oh hell Rick who _cares_? They're going to improve my voice like no one will believe!"

"Wait, wait, hold on one second. You bought these birds...because someone told you that they'd help your _voice?_" Rick was completely flabbergasted. Michelle was only 19 years old, an era where women often fell into the relentless clutches of consumerism, but he had thought her less gullible than this.

Michelle stopped in her tracks for a bit. "Well...yeah."

"That's absolutely preposterous. And I'll bet you paid a fortune for them, too!"

"I..."

"Return the goddamn things."

"No! Rick, we're starting our production of Madama Butterfly next Sunday at the Les Prieres and I'm the lead! I...I don't know if these birds will work, but it's my only hope. My voice can't possibly recover so fast otherwise."

"If they don't work, you'd better return them."

"Rick, they're pets. You don't put a warranty on pets." Rick glared at her, then softened his expression, and finally turned his back on her with a noise of upset exasperation.   
"Great. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful. I really hope these birds of yours work, Michelle."

She did not reply.

-

It was a surprisingly clear and chilly Sunday evening, a rare occurrence in LA's October, and Count D wanted to go to the opera. Attending the opera alone, however, always proves to be a rather dreary affair, so over tea and cake he invited a certain detective to come along with him.

"The _opera_? Come ON, D. The last time I had anything to do with opera, it was a bunch of people getting eaten by some crazy fish." All of a sudden, D's request to wear formal clothing made sense.

"Now, Detective. You haven't actually SEEN an opera, have you?"

"Uh...no."

"Well then, it'll be a good experience for you. Perhaps it will beat a little bit of class into that thick skull of yours." Leon said no more. He realized that, despite the tidal waves of refusal that he could turn towards the tenacious Count, he would still end up going with him anyway. He crammed one final bite of chocolate decadence cake into his mouth, threw his jacket on and braced himself for an hour and a half of sweet, sweet slumber.

"Oh, and if you fall asleep, Detective, I'll make sure Tet-chan has his way with you the next time you're here."

Leon moaned in utter anguish. Count D rose from his velvet-lined armchair and swung the ornamental red doors open with a great flourish, revealing the crowded and overcast streets outside. The back alley that the petshop was tucked away in was protected staunchly by a phalanx of tall, intimidating buildings, its diminutive stature belying the secrets that resided within. It was a colder night than Leon had accounted for, and he regretted having not brought a pair of leather gloves with him; not only were they warm and comfortable, but wearing them made him feel decidedly masculine.

The walk to their destination, the Les Prieres Opera Hall, was very brief. Leon was fairly surprised that there was an opera hall standing in urban Los Angeles, but his doubts were dismissed in a flash when he saw the well-maintained building standing proudly. Looking upon its equally upstanding clientele, transported by shiny new automobiles and decked out in fashions that the middle-class could never dream of having, his surprise quickly washed over to confusion. How could he have missed such a nouveau-riche establishment buried in the heart of skuzzy old LA?

Count D, however, appeared to be very well acquainted with the building and the people working under its employ. The doormen greeted him with a noticeable degree of familiarity, looked at the scruffy pony-tailed man in his tow, and gave the Count a perplexed look. Offering no apologies for his company, D silently paid for both of their tickets and strode into the lobby with the out-of-sorts detective.

The inside of the opera hall was just as resplendent as its exterior, highlighted by dazzling pillars of pure white marble and shining, extensive floors so smooth that Leon felt himself gliding across the surface. Red carpet richer than even the Count's magnificent furniture ran throughout the hall. It was one of the most architecturally beautiful places Leon had ever borne witness to, and it took extensive prodding by the Count to snap him out of the trance the room had locked him in.

"Come now, Detective...I don't need you dozing off before the opera even starts." And with that, Leon and D walked into the audience, assuming seats towards the center of the opera hall. Though not as visually scintillating as the lobby, the arced ceiling and formidable stage still managed to impress Leon. The Count peered down at his playbill, holding a pair of theatrical binoculars in his spidery hands. The casting came as no surprise to him.

A man sitting in the seat to the right of Leon's, a rather jittery-looking fellow with swiftly-receding brown hair and wide eyes, turned to the detective's direction, then looked past his shoulder, then back at the detective again.

"Excuse me...I'd just like to let you know that your date is absolutely beautiful."

Leon glared at the man, then glared at the unobserving Count, then glared at the man again.

"Shut _up._"

The man turned away, rather terrified. Leon leaned back in his seat, contemplating why he still associated with the Count when all the man brought him was some gender-bending bewilderment on the part of the public and a roaring mouthful of cavities. The Count must have some sort of allure, Leon decided, that was keeping him gravitated towards him. Was it his innately shiny purple hair? Complex and intricate kimonos? Perhaps he was slipping something into Leon's tea. Whatever the reason, Leon realized that the roots of this mismatch were so difficult and irrational to pinpoint that a 'friendship' like theirs was something of a miracle.

"Detective. The opera is beginning." The lights dimmed, and Leon whipped his head to the stage, where the curtains slowly drew themselves open. Standing front and center was a young, trim girl with hair so light brown as to tempt a shade of ginger and a form-fitting green cheongsam patterned with vivid red and blue butterflies. The detective found himself stricken by this unique-looking young woman already, and she had not even opened her mouth. Instead, she was downplayed by the unspectacular and decidedly boring voice of the military commander flanking her, strutting about the stage as if he were some sort of musical revolution. Leon was bored already.

Her time came, however, and the noises she made were unlike anything Leon had ever heard. The girl's voice, amplified to an unbelievable extent by the acoustics of the theater, pierced his heart like the arrow of some unforgiving muse. Her voice rippled effortlessly through glissandos attainable by few others of the human race; she slid from octave to octave with absolutely no effort whatsoever. The audience seemed intent on every movement of her mouth, waiting for her to deliver her next clarion tone. Immediately Leon was called to attention; her voice acted as some unearthly siren's call, enveloping him like the warmest of summer and betraying him like the coldest of nights. He understood this character that she was portraying, the love she felt and the honor that bound it, and he was touched in an indescribable way.

The rest of the opera proceeded in a very similar way. Leon found himself completely fixated on this epic tale, hanging on to every line delivered, spoken or sung. And every time the girl finally sang, it was like his heart took wing and soared away to some undiscovered, undisturbed paradise. The atmosphere she created was absolutely ethereal. At one point towards the end, Leon gazed over to the Count, and found him smirking smugly; how he could bring himself to have such a reaction completely eluded the detective.

After what seemed like a perfect eternity, the opera finally ended with the tragic suicide of the heroine. Leon quickly hid the tears rolling down his cheeks, but this secret shame was quickly dispelled when he saw that everyone else in the audience was crying as well. The only notable exception to this phenomenon was Count D. The curtains closed, and every spectator rose to their feet, creating an accolade that Leon had never heard before. The curtains opened once again, and each stage member took a bow, the last of which was the young girl herself. With her advent upon the stage, the audience's cheers and clapping rose to a deafening crescendo, and the girl waved gratefully to her new set of fans.

Leon seized the theatrical binoculars from the count to get a closer look at this mysterious Madame Butterfly; though beautiful, her appearance was not as unearthly as her voice. She was pretty but plain and her features were slightly knotted, like someone accustomed to dissatisfaction.

At that moment, Leon was the only person in the theater who saw the pearl of blood dot the corner of her mouth. It rolled down her lip, but she quickly noticed it and wiped it away before it could streak down her chin. With a new look of dismay, she continued her gratitude towards the uproarious applause, ever so slightly more unsettled.

Looking once again on the applauding Count D, who still wore his complacent smirk, the detective realized that he had _something_ to do with this.

-

A/N: OMFG why is this so LONG. Gah. Oh, and one small problem...I've never seen Madame Butterfly. I hope I didn't bastardize it too badly. Anyway, Chapter 2 is to come soon, so please enjoy what I have at the moment.


	2. Sotto Voce

A Wreath of Songbirds

Chapter 2

A/N: Despite a rather tepid response to the first chapter, I'm gonna finish this big old mofo whether you like it or not. Whoo! Oh, and everyone should be watching Monster, by the way. Best anime ever? Yes.

* * *

Not one second after the joyful Michelle Mariano and her chattering fiancé stepped in their front door, the phone began to ring. She broke the man's grasp of her arm with a gentle kiss and glided over to pick up the receiver. 

"Yes…mmhm…oh, thank you so much!…Oh, roses would be _wonderful_. Hehe…Thank you again, dear…mmhm. Bye bye." Hanging up the phone, she ran up to Rick and flung herself into his thick arms, laughing mirthfully.

"Oh darling, they worked! They really did! See, I told you to have a little faith in me and they _worked_!" She kissed him, over and over and over again, and finally withdrew her head to let him speak.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, sweetheart. Your performance was really the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Who was that phone call from?"

"The opera house manager. He wanted to tell me what a _great_ performance I gave! Oh, the phone again – " and once again, the refined ivory phone chirped away. Perched directly above it were Michelle's songbirds, newly crowned her 'most valuable possession'. As she warbled happily into the phone, engaged in conversation with another of her brand-new fans, her fiancé looked on cheerily. He had never seen Michelle this content or elated before.

"Did you feed the birds today, love?"

"Yes dear, before I went to the opera house." She grinned and spun around and laughed, a booming chortle that filled the room with unmatched warmth.

"Shall we go to bed, darling? You've had a _long_ night…" Rick growled, lowering his right eyebrow in that way she loved so much.

"Carry me, lovely." And he took the thin young woman into his arms and sashayed with her up the stairs, surprisingly nimble given the added weight. The majestic bedroom doors swung shut behind them, and the night was the most romantic they had ever spent together.

* * *

"So did you enjoy the performance, Detective?" inquired the Count, unctuous and smooth in his questioning as always.

"Yeah. It was okay."

"Oh, is that it?"

"Yeah."

"Huh." It would have been pointless for him to argue with the hard-headed young fool. "And what did you think of the singer? Quite an extraordinary voice, wouldn't you say?"

"She was good, actually. Very good." Leon replayed the performance over in his head until he finally came to the curtain call. The bright young woman standing on stage, smiling, waving…and a droplet of blood, rolling out of her mouth, down her pale chin. Surely he wasn't the only one who had noticed this, or thought anything of it. And he _knew _that the Count had seen it too, just by that look of smug self-satisfaction written all over his face.

* * *

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity for the rising Miss Michelle Mariano. With her astonishing success in the role of Madama Butterfly, she quickly became the hot new word in the inner circles of Los Angeles's beau monde society. She was whisked away to parties immediately after each of her weekday performances, and the weekends were an inferno of public appearances, interviews and all the doldrums of becoming a star. In all respects, Michelle had become a debutante among the Los Angeles crème-de-la-crème, the golden child of opera hounds and an all-around raging overnight success.

Her fiancé Rick, at first flanking her for each and every party and attendance, had since become rather jilted by her stardom. Eventually only she was called to the parties, and only she was the object of the reporters' interest, and he was left dejected and alone in their all-too-roomy hillside mansion. Once in a while some publication having a slow news day would send an interviewer this way ("How does it feel to be engaged to the esteemed Miss Mariano?"), but all they served to do was increase his loneliness.

What stung the most, however, is that the cause of all his unrequited marital piety was those three blank-eyed birds perched above the telephone. Michelle treated them better than most humans, feeding them with the utmost of care and lining their cage with wildly decorative plants and toys. They seemed none the wiser for it, and Rick was flabbergasted that she could invest so much affection in these stupid creatures when they could barely pay her back for it. But alas, despite what he told himself, he knew they really did – they granted her the gift of a godly voice. Rick had grown to hate the stupid things, resent their subdued chirping, despise their mysterious influence…but knew that if he laid so much as a finger on them she would have his hide.

It was a Friday night, the last performance day before her scheduled weekend break, and she finally came home from her typical party circuit. Instead of meeting her at the door, Rick remained slumped in an armchair he was quickly becoming familiar with.

"I'm _home_, dearest!" she cried as jubilantly as ever. Scarcely looking up from his newspaper, smattered with thick bold headlines and his fiancée's grinning face, he glanced at the clock. 2 AM.

"Well, good evening. Dear." The final word had become little more than an afterthought. Michelle detected the despondency punctuating his voice and strode over, on her typical cloud nine, to where he had slouched.

"What's the matter, baby?" she asked him; her voice was cloying to the point of sarcasm. "Have you been hitting the bottle again? If you drank the vodka, though, I'll kick your cute little butt!" She giggled and gave him a kiss on his scruffy little cheek. Rick just stared ahead, vacantly, at the fireplace. He could smell the alcohol on her breath, and see it in her red-tinged cheeks.

"It's nothing at all. And no, I didn't drink the vodka. I know how enamored you are with it."

"Hmmmmm!" she squealed rather unrecognizably, and flopped down right on his lap. He gasped with surprise and threw down the newspaper in his hands.

"Michelle, what the hell are you doing?"

"Sleep with me. We haven't done it in, like, weeks."

"I'm not really in the mood."

"Well _I_ am," she simpered, pursing her lips and leaving another, much sloppier, kiss on his right cheek. "Come on! Come on, come on, come onnnn!"

"Shut up!" he roared at her, finally unable to restrain himself. Her jubilance vanished in a haze, inebriated grin fading off into some subdued frown. She slid off his lap in relative silence and, without warning, began to tear up.

"Rick…what in the – "

"Just leave me alone, Michelle. I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight."

Even in her less-than-lucid state of mind, she knew she couldn't say anything to change his stance. Not yet defeated, however, she strode over to her beloved birdcage and started to speak. Her words were slightly slurred and obviously lacking in better judgment, but Rick knew what she was getting at all the same.

"A little jealous, are we, love?"

"What?"

"Yeah, you heard me. Ever since I've become _faaaamous_, you've done nothing but sulk and feel sorry for yourself. Yeah, you're jealous of my birds and I, aren't you? Just because you have no talent, except for being the son of some drippy architect, doesn't mean you're obliged to envy mine."

Rick stood there, absolutely blown away. What was even more frightening than her wild accusations was the fact that they were just about true.

"Whatever, Rick! You just sleep there tonight and think about what you've done for me over the years. Oh wait…that's not a whoooole hell of a lot, is it? Hmm?" And with an ear-piercing laugh, she stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom, off to catch a good night's sleep in beautiful solitude. Rick twisted his head away from her position on the staircase and, once again, stared blankly at the burning fireplace before him.

It was then that he had his idea.

* * *

Today was the closing performance of Madama Butterfly starring the esteemed Miss Michelle Mariano. She had grown bored of the story, and despite its raging success, she was now the woman pulling the strings at the Les Prieres Opera Hall and she demanded that the opera die a graceful death. As a result, the house was packed even more tightly than on the previous month's worth of concerts, full of both the middle-class and the untouchables of Los Angeles.

Rick was there too. Michelle had, as always, gotten him a ticket to the front seat. He hadn't shown much interest in seeing her sing in the last week, but he had demonstrated a sudden enthusiasm to see her finale and she decided to satiate it. He looked as swank as usual, if not a little bit lonely sitting by himself. Brown-slacked legs crossed over one another, his expression was that of sardonic amusement.

In an uncharacteristically generous articulation, Michelle had even extended a hand to the man who began her empire. Count D himself sat in the front row, three seats away from Miss Mariano's jilted fiancé; flanking him was a familiar detective. After ceaseless whining on the brusque investigator's part about having already seen it, the Count had finally issued him an offer he couldn't refuse: see the opera, or babysit Tet-chan while he was away. Leon Orcot, in interest of self-preservation, chose the former. The opera starlet had dropped by the petshop that morning to give Count D two tickets to see her closing performance, and in interest of having someone to gloat to when his plan was brought full-circle he brought Leon along as well.

Before anyone knew it, the lights dimmed and the curtains fluttered away. Leon noticed the moderately pretty young girl once again; this time her presence was enhanced by proximity, a blessing to both her intricate clothing and the makeup upon her face. What he noticed more readily, however, was that the strutting prima donna male singer from the last performance was gone. A far less flashy, superbly understated man now took his place, washed out by the lights and his stern gray clothing. His female counterpart looked very pleased with herself as she waltzed about with him on stage.

And finally, the part everyone waited with bated breath for had arrived. Michelle Mariano strode, front and center, to the very focus of the stage, and opened her mouth. Not a sound came out.

Leon could feel his stomach drop. Gauging the reactions of everyone else in the audience, most of them must have undergone the same anticlimax. Only Rick and, naturally, the Count seemed unfazed by this bizarre new development. Michelle, her face whitening even under the stage makeup, made motions that suggested gasping for air. No one watching understood that she was still trying to sing, to rekindle the fire she had created time and again, to absolutely no avail. The detective could see the young girl, now so vulnerable and undermined, begin to tremble, and then to cry, tears cutting harsh lines through her white face-mask.

Rick, in a rather unceremonious show, rose to his feet and began to clap. Michelle looked at him with an expression so derisive and bewildered that it pained Leon to see her. He clapped and clapped, and then, to the confusion of the rest of the audience, he began to laugh. It was a deep, growling snort that soon crescendoed into a booming chuckle, almost hysterical in its triumph. He laughed and he clapped, so much so that he had to sit down to catch his breath. Tears were now rolling down his eyes as well, though they were tears of nigh-insane amusement rather than indignity or sadness. The tragedy of Madama Butterfly had come to a premature, if not very appropriate, end.

Michelle, her eyes locked on her fiancé with an immeasurably betrayed expression, ran off stage without a word. The audience, completely at a loss for what to do, began to applaud. It was hardly the tumultuous applause of two weeks' worth of support, but instead a confused and perfunctory show of gratitude. The audience was simply clapping out of sympathy for the young opera star. Despite the courtesy, an unspoken verdict had been reached: Michelle Mariano's high-profile career was now in serious jeopardy.

The Count was applauding too. Leon, however, was far less subtle.

"What the HELL is going on, Count?"

"The desires of two lovers, my dear Detective, are far less aligned than you would think." This cryptic bullshit told Leon absolutely nothing, of course, but he knew that he would read some all-telling article in the paper tomorrow that would completely vindicate Count D and make himself look like an ass. For lack of another course of action, Leon clapped as well.

* * *

Michelle arrived home. Insult had been more than added to injury when the taxi driver benignly asked her if she had "gotten any sun lately?", told her that "her clothes were strange" and remarked that she "should get some rest, or some help". She chose not to tip him for this humiliation. Just as soon as she had slammed the front door shut, Rick walked in, hands tucked in his pockets, a smug smile creasing his face. Her reaction was incoherent.

"What…I…Rick, what the FUCK is wrong with you? I…oh my God, I ruined it ALL…aaaaaaah!" Michelle dug her hands into her hair, undone from its curtly-kept bun and now falling about her in a disheveled brown tangle.

"A top-class performance, my dear! You've certainly outdone yourself this time!"

"How DARE you!" Michelle had absolutely no idea what he was building up to, with this uncharacteristic arrogance and bizarre smugness. He merely grasped for her hand, laughing once again.

"I could only imagine what you were thinking, lovely. 'Hm, I can't wow them with sound anymore…how about _silence?_' A brilliant plan!" Rick once again burst into a triumphant fit of hysterics, laughing so hard that he had to ease himself into his typical armchair. Miss Mariano smacked his hand away so forcefully that the resounding crack surprised even him.

"_What did you do!_" Michelle shrieked. No answer, save his near-sadistic chortling. Suddenly, she whipped towards the birds. "My birds! _Did you fuck with my birds, Rick?" _Unaware of the chaos they had left in their wake, the three songbirds merely eyed their human charges. These strange new noises were far more interesting than the toys she had bought for them.

The very sound of this sentence only served to make Rick laugh even harder. Out of context it must have been the funniest thing he'd ever heard his fiancée say. This only enraged her further – Michelle's embarrassment had now been shelved in favor of an unfathomable rage and hatred. Rick couldn't help but gloat, however; he took his lovely fiancée's arm (forcibly, so as to ward off her frenetic scratching and slapping) and led her into the dining room.

There, at the head of the overly-long and overly-fancy dining room table, places had been set for several imaginary guests. To better show off his handiwork, Rick hovered her over the highlights of this bizarre venture. The finest dinette sets had been laid out, as evidenced by the sparkling silver utensils, the scarlet cotton napkins and the exquisite china. Candles, adorned by majestic copper candelabras, were smoldering softly, casting the whole room in a vaguely insidious firelight. Though the lights of the city shining through the windowed wall normally illuminated the room, this pure radiance now chased away any darkness that midnight may have suggested. This two-faced beauty, sadly, went largely ignored. What caught her eye first was the place set at the head of the table. Rick, noticing Michelle's reaction, waltzed her over and sat her gracelessly in the majestic oaken chair. As she looked down, her heart was gripped with an incalculable horror as she saw the two shining knives, crossed in a perfect X.

Her first reaction was a vocal one. "…Rick, you broke the contract," she said, her voice hollow with disbelief. "The man who sold those birds said not to cross any silverware, Rick."

"Oh! Oops!" And with these roared words, he began his jubilant laughter once again. The very sound of it made Michelle's blood curdle. "I must not have been listening. Perhaps you were too busy fawning over _those fucking birds _to address me directly, huh? Or maybe you were still on the telephone, arranging your next PR session or photo shoot? Huh? Huh?" Michelle had no response. She merely rose from her seat and, trembling feverishly, took one of the knives in her whitened hand.

Rick's insane glee melted into an anger to match Michelle's own. "Too busy singing for all the fucking Los Angeles dilettantes to bid a word to your fiancé, huh? Heyyy, remember your fiancé? The one who dipped into his daddy's fortune to pay for this fucking mansion of a house? The one who spent every dollar he came upon on your worthless, spoiled ass? The one you told you loved over and over again, you lying, filthy, indignant _bitch?_"

They were the last words he ever spoke. With calculated aim, Michelle Mariano drove the knife straight into Rick's heart. He never saw it coming, and died with a look of sudden shock on his face.

* * *

Count D wouldn't let Leon see the paper the next day. The detective looked as if he was irritated enough as it is, and The Daily News rarely lifted the burden off of his shoulders.

"I can't believe it! That girl in Madama Butterfly…she just up and killed her fiancé, without a word of warning. We found her there, just standing over his body with the knife in her hand. Candles were lit and everything…freakiest thing."

"Were there any birds there, Detective?"

"Hm? Oh…as a matter of fact, there were. Three of them. All dead, though." Leon reached across the table to pour himself another cup of jasmine tea; despite his best efforts to sneak a piece of chocolate cake as well, Count D smacked his hand without blinking. "Gah. Really nice birds, too. Must have cost a fortune." Then it dawned on him. "Shit, D…you bastard…"

"Those birds live in Romania, exclusively in one tiny forest. For some reason, they nest together, which is rather uncharacteristic of most aviary species. That is, I think, why the species has almost gone extinct." Leon, as always, looked totally bewildered. "Another curious fact… One of the most time-honored superstitions in the country is that if you ever leave two items of silverware crossed, such as knives, then a conflict will arise in the household."

"What?"

"One wonders why a person would do so on purpose." Count D's gaze rose from the piece of cake he was cutting to some undetermined point on the ceiling. "Perhaps conflict is not so easy to avoid when two people want different things."

"…You never fail to drive me bat-shit insane, Count."

"I aim to please."

The two continued to dine.

* * *

A/N: So I definitely wrote this at three in the morning, half a year after writing the first chapter. Can't you tell? ;/ I hate how I had to format this, but eats all my larger line breaks and turns them wacky, so I had to use the funny little lines. Whatever. Anyway, leave a review, I'm a huge review slut.  



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